


anywhere you go, let me go too

by MissFaber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Cousins, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, France 1870s (vibes), Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and Sansa are Cousins, Love Confessions, Minor Violence, Phantom of the Opera AU, Robb is the only other Starkling besides Sansa, Romance, and literally do nothing, but still deviates, can I, i can never resist, inspired by the musical/movie not the novel, jon is not a soft idiot like the vicomte de chagny, lowkey spider vs. mockingbird, queen of my life, sansa is amazing as always... ugh her mind, sorry vicomte you are very sweet but you mansplain a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-07-19 08:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: "I will try to be your light, Sansa. But I have darkness in me too.""His darkness is oppressive, it chokes me. But this..." She looks at him. "Jon. I want this."After the tragic death of her family, Sansa Stark is hidden away in the Highgarden Opera where she should be safe. Yet the Opera Ghost seems more foe than friend, more trickster than teacher, and Sansa's dreams of angels of music shatter, plunging her into hellish prison made of the phantom's strange demands. With a single leaf from the heart tree, Sansa prays for escape...New to princehood and fortune, Jon Snow reluctantly becomes the new patron of the Highgarden Opera on the advice of his financial counselors, although he knows nothing of music and beauty. A most fateful decision...... and as Sansa is plunged into the prima donna's limelight, she is reunited with her cousin Jon Snow.(The phantom doesn't like that.)





	1. don't think about the way things might have been

**Author's Note:**

> I made the mistake of watching the phantom of the opera the other day, because [I'm an idiot](https://gm1.ggpht.com/UWrHuZ86yLHI9S1nj1HlJjUlU0Wlhu6usOGlYsruC9kTRNrMf8MjCZkdCW9c2tQfUnAQinrXwOkoVGrNk_vq9z2sIo1z9liyhwcqtC3K_ok1aqFk8FDmbIkByWiL99_z009t-EDgWXukKnBq9U34ZKKDP8M0l01hZu3t1Dx4xqvfTkV2BVOF0y2Ocq2U6UfHPd5fAbPFYTx4CfxzKuLIdA_oAJDdbAFdzONSkbuCR566ODHZz83nw1UDSn4iYsGkrPSqIuMRSavCLr7TYfCMIm89Dy5CEtibC4Ra-YuzT0qW4UldDhWhJT-PGwx95eCTo5_IygRZQhJv59uIv1_v6Uxzbm2DmKqPOQrjMXWCDFTvuOlpVBcLzQpBB9O32kg4j0yYyfwvBCY2t-asPjz9awGo-cqw68dc-ncuL_PGrk8sLiESDXQcMbz731VvWBYxqss4TRqT0tbb-KQuFYDo_31U8EGHOmgaO89Osqtki2I9qph5XHaVMQ7E8NoLCi38IF5OoxntNhpuB-ceebYo5691JAKv0xexV7WpfaulKUJ_n1R5XjCoYr_m0QFi4J4CQpHUw6xyEadOPXXZeVUeGc24S1QIO4ND97pbMfZzIpjfrWeJzR_lxfmdEGDK28iM-mQTNb8u3kIvBrZiF8KCSZyaglrarS4FS0B-AFZpwEJ2CMQa4ZZEeqiOtMDRbwvvVW8tzfqyYYNqqc9dm6pR0pIK5fEaZxaH4Ps=s0-l75-ft-l75-ft) with no restraint, and... this AU just poured out of me. Please enjoy lol!
> 
> Chapter title from "Think of Me". All titles will be from the musical.

He came to her in her dreams, but tonight she was awake. The golden arms held torches out to guide her way, but she needed them none. His voice was guide enough. He sang and despite the ugliness of his heart and the dryness of his hands when he touched her, the melody was beautiful. His voice drew her to him until she was deep in the catacombs and she barely noticed the hem of her dress dipping into the murky waters of the river. Then her bare feet grew wet too and the feeling stung.

“I am here, sweetling.”

He was singing, still. “Slowly, gently…” In his boat he bent low and took her hand, pulling her onto the boat with him.

He pushed her shoulders and she settled at his feet. He liked her like this, a flower with its petals spread at his feet, as he drove her to where he wished to go.

 _This was so beautiful when it was just a dream,_ Sansa thought, staring at the glittering lights on the surface of the water. But awake, knowing what she knew, the vision was cruel and for a reason she could not place it made her breath feel choked and tight. For so many nights now she was awake, painfully awake when the phantom visited her—or was it she who visited him? Sansa did not know. She slept each night before the clock struck ten and the phantom chose when to appear to her, when to take her below.

When they were on the shore he sat on his throne and bid her stand before him. He crossed his legs and smiled his small little smile, a sliver beneath the white half-mask.

“Sing…”

Sansa opened her mouth and gave him what he wanted.

She harmonized first, performing the notes he asked her to, and even after everything she could not help the swell of admiration in her chest whenever he joined in or demonstrated. His voice was beautiful, the voice of her teacher, the voice of an angel.

But it was he who called her angel, murmuring it again and again, until his voice rose and strengthened and he was singing too. Or was he pleading? His eyes were glittery with tears and his face seemed _alive,_ taught with tension, his voice rang with desperation.

 _“Sing,_ my angel! _Sing,_ sweetling!”

She obeyed, vocalizing a beautiful high note that rose and rose until it shook the cieling above them. His face shone with delight. To her it only sounded like a scream.

_“Sing for me!”_

He was trembling. He took pleasure in owning her voice. Sansa let him own it. It was better than owning her.

* * *

“Dearest! Have you heard?”

In the changing room of the ballet girls Sansa was peeling her shoes off her aching feet. She was a chorus girl but in her heart preferred singing to ballet. Madame Tyrell wished dearly it was the opposite—tall and willowy, Sansa was an ideal ballerina. But Madame Tyrell had also heard her sing, so Sansa knew she did not disapprove of her aspirations.

“What am I to have heard, Margaery?”

The beautiful girl bounced to where Sansa sat and delicately settled in beside her. Her face shone, from the exertion of the performance they just shared, or perhaps from the gossip she was eager to deliver. Knowing her friend, Sansa guessed it was the latter.

“We have been _bought.”_

“The opera house?” Sansa frowned. She would miss Monsieur Luwin, absentee as he was. He was a good man who treated all the workers, performers, and boarders of the opera house well. “Why has Monsieur Luwin sold it?”

“He is retiring. For his _health,_ he says, though I suspect it’s to get away from that wicked diva Cersei… handling her must have aged him thirty years!”

Sansa privately wished that if such was the case, Cersei be the one to leave instead. The prima donna was insufferable and not worth all the trouble she caused, in Sansa’s opinion. She was not alone in thinking so; she had overheard Madame Tyrell complaining about how the audiences were lessening because Cersei was losing her touch. Perhaps Monsieur Luwin was leaving to cut his losses.

“There are two new owners, they’re saying,” Margaery continued. “One is an Essosi lord who has made a fortune here—in… mining? I believe? I’m not sure. The other his business partner, a Northern ex-military man...”

A Northern military man? Sansa’s heart clenched, her hands stilling on the ribbons of her shoes. She thought of father and her brother, she thought of mother’s pretty face which, in her memory, was starting to soften at the edges. They all were.

She felt Margaery’s hand at her elbow. “Sansa, are you alright?”

Fear struck her heart; she looked wildly around her. “Hush! You must never call me that. You know that.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Margaery sighed, her doe eyes going sad. “It’s not really a secret.”

Sansa’s shoulders tightened. “The phantom will kill anyone who knows. He has a plan for me… a plan I _must_ follow…”

Sansa watched the indecision and the pity play across Margaery’s face _. Let her pity me, let her think me insane,_ as long as she didn’t use her real name and risk the phantom’s wrath. Sansa may be the only one who’s met the phantom, the only one who knew he was real beyond a shadow of a doubt, but everyone in the opera house had their experiences with him. They saw his destruction and heard his demands. Monsieur Luwin paid him a salary, after all, and that was real enough.

“Then be Alayne if you wish,” Margaery finally spoke. “I don’t know if that protects you from _the_ ‘ _phantom’_ but I know it will protect you from Cersei.”

“She hated my family,” Sansa agreed. The Lannisters were old enemies of the Starks, and they were powerful enemies. “As Alayne the chorus girl I am invisible to her.”

Margaery squeezed her hand in reassurance. “If you wish it, it will stay that way.”

A moment later Margaery was called away by some task or another and Sansa rose, bone-weary and eager to retire to her bed.

The passages to the ballet dormitories were long and winding but Sansa could walk them in her sleep. She lived here for so long—though it was less than half her life, it felt like the true life she led. The life that had come before, the one with mother and father in the cold and stillness of the north that she’d hated so much as a child, felt like a dream.

Sansa passed an old woman leaning against the wall and slowed her step. She thought she recognized the woman from the costume shop. Sansa approached her cautiously. “Madame? Are you alright?”

But the woman clutched her chest and gave no answer. She clutched Sansa’s shoulder as soon as she was close enough, gripping it so hard Sansa thought she was the only thing holding her up.

“Madame! Should I fetch the doctor?”

The old woman nodded. “Yes… please… take me to my bed first…”

Sansa immediately obliged, supporting the woman’s weight as they walked as briskly as they were able. They passed a couple of stagehands who, eager to help, took over accompanying the old woman while Sansa flew off to call the doctor.

At the woman’s bidding, Sansa waited in the corner of the room while the doctor examined her. She smiled at Sansa once the doctor had left.

“You are a sweet one,” she muttered. “Truly a good one.”

“I’m relieved you will be well.”

“Come here.”

Sansa drew closer. The woman waited until Sansa was bent over her bedside; then she pushed something thin and leathery-soft into her hand.

It was blood red and the stem had a sharp edge, as if it had been cut with a blade. Sansa straightened. Now it was she who felt faint. _A weirwood leaf._

She was afraid to look at the woman, but she did. A smile was playing around her mouth. Her eyes told her she knew.

Sansa felt the blood freeze in her veins—she knew? But how could she know? Was the phantom listening now, would he hurt her?

But the old woman was ignorant to her struggle. “The North remembers.”

Sansa closed her hand over the leaf and swept from the room quick as she could. Only when she was safe in her bed did she allow herself to look at the leaf, crumpled from her tight fist. It would join the newspaper clipping she had hidden in the secret pocket stitched into her mattress; two things left of her family, two things most precious of her. She stared at it until her eyes grew heavy, and then she clutched it to her chest. And as she fell to sleep she prayed for the first time in years, feeling the old gods beside her. She prayed for a true protector, a true angel to deliver her from this hell.

* * *

Monsieur Varys Lys emerged from his carriage with an unbridled smile. To a stranger it might have looked like a mere quirk of the lips, but he was truly ecstatic. His partner, on the other hand, wore a narrow eyed expression of suspicion, but that hardly bothered Varys. Monsieur Mance Rayder was known for to err more on the cautious side of cautious optimism.

They beheld The Highgarden Opera for a moment in all its splendor, the tall marble columns and the abundance of gold filigree. “You cannot say it is not magnificent,” Varys needled his partner.

Mance did not appear moved. “What I _can_ say is that it’s ours.”

The two ascended the stone steps and joined the small party waiting to receive them. The papers were signed and all the business finalized; Monsieur Luwin was merely there as a courtesy. He seemed stooped and aged as he detailed to them the minutiae of the opera house without much enthusiasm. Normally this would alarm Varys, but he had a shrewd head for business and had looked over the numbers carefully. Besides, he had a bit of a golden touch—a few days here and he knew he would have more than a few ideas that would increase their revenue considerably.

It was Madame Tyrell who showed true passion and knowledge of the opera house. Varys enjoyed her company immensely, her dry wit and sharp tongue was a complement to his own spirit, and they often interrupted the flow of conversation with minutes of banter. Yes, she was impatient and partial to thinly veiled insults, but invaluable. She came from generations of Tyrells tied to the opera house in one way or another, and she herself had practically been born in its walls, the prima donna of her day.

A rehearsal was clearly underway, and as they drew closer to the stage they had to nearly shout to be heard. Eventually the conductor called for a stop, exasperated, giving them a dark look.

“Good gods, _please!_ Can’t you see a rehearsal is underway! I am an _artiste!”_

“Patience, Monsieur Lannister,” Madame Tyrell said. “I think you’ll find this interruption worth your time, in quite the literal sense of the word.”

The short man climbed out of the pit, his baton still twirling absently in his hand. Varys had to nudge Mance, for the latter was staring, perhaps not used to seeing dwarves in the north, but Varys had seen all manner of creatures and men and was unbothered.

“Ah! Then one of these fine gentlemen is our new patron?”

“No, they are your new managers.”

The words started a flurry of talk that only stopped when Monsieur Luwin moved to the center of the stage and raised his hands. “Yes, the rumors are true. I am retiring, and it’s my pleasure to introduce you to the new owners of the Highgarden Opera…”

Varys smiled and nodded, waiting politely for the applause to die down, and he was relieved when he heard Mance mutter, “Oh, thank the gods. _Snow._ There he is.”

Monsieur Jon Snow had appeared—or perhaps he had been there the whole time, before Varys and Mance even arrived, as he was standing obscured in shadow on the left wing of the stage, somehow invisible among costumed performers and stagehands and maids alike. The man had an uncanny skill for doing that, and perhaps a desire for it too; in their dealings Varys always sensed the younger man was uncomfortable in the spotlight, uncomfortable with the fortune and the status thrust upon him. Jon Snow seemed to prefer standing in the shadows, with the common folk.

Varys smiled graciously and extended a hand to where Jon stood. “It is my honor to introduce our patron, the Targaryen prince, Monsieur Snow.”

He did not miss the dark glare Jon shot him as he moved to Mance’s side. _Oh well._ Jon had—mystifyingly, in Varys’s opinion— refused to take the Targaryen name, but it seemed he did not want to be referred to as a Targaryen at all; Varys knew this from a few tense introductions and heated corrections. Yet there was an undeniable advantage to the use of the name, and Varys knew he made the correct choice with his phrasing when he saw the wondrous awe ripple through the crowd. Change such as the one they were going through could be alarming, unsettling, and Varys knew they wanted to felt taken care of; secure. To be taken care of by a prince… that would make them feel more than secure. It would make them feel special. Jon Snow’s discomfort was a small price to pay.

One of the two men flanking Jon stepped up. He whispered something in Jon’s ear and Jon faced the crowd. He did not smile.

“It’s my honor to support the arts, especially… an institution as fine as The Highgarden Opera…” He faltered. “Thank you for your trust in me. I do not take it lightly.” 

It was awkward and the bit about the trust didn’t really apply, as a patron would not be involved in the management, but if the crowd’s reaction was any indication, it worked. For all his unwillingness to be in such a position, Jon Snow had an excess of… _unintentional_ charm. After a few key introductions were made, Jon was free to leave, and he did so immediately—but not before Varys made him promise to return for that night’s performance.

Then Varys and Mance settled in to watch the rehearsal, although Mance looked like he would have liked to follow Jon.

Varys lent one ear to Madame Tyrell’s snippets of facts about the performers and the opera, and the other to the performance itself. The leading soprano, a golden haired woman in a splendidly garish dress, was causing quite a stir, and not a positive one. Varys’s keen eye picked up on the chorus girls who stood on the sidelines and snickered behind their hands, the maids who stuffed their ears as they worked. Her voice was _technically_ skilled, Varys supposed, but not anything more, and he filed this away in his mind. He would have to learn more about the politics of the opera before he made any decisions, to be sure, but already he knew his pockets would benefit from bringing in a star singer with more soul. _And at least ten years younger._

Her name was Lannister, Madame Tyrell told him. Same as the conductor. Varys felt familiar with the name—perhaps they were an affluent or notorious family. He would have to learn before making any decisions.

A beautiful ballet performance started and it seemed even Mance was impressed. He was asking questions of Madame Tyrell, pointing out ballerinas with his walking stick.

“That is my granddaughter, Margaery,” Madame Olenna said, with no small amount of pride. “She is our best ballerina.”

“There is no one more talented or lovely,” Monsieur Luwin agreed diplomatically.

“And the red haired beauty?”

Varys did not have to point—there was only one. Madame Tyrell sighed, and for a moment he thought it was because he had drawn attention away from her granddaughter, but when she looked at him he could see this was not the case. “I suppose you should know, as the new owners…”

“What should we know?”

“That is Sansa Stark.”

Mance’s response was instant and taken from Varys’s own tongue. “Daughter of Ned Stark?”

“Yes, the very same.”

“Poor girl,” Varys said. “It was such a tragedy.”

“She has blossomed here,” Madame Tyrell promised. “But she does not prefer everyone to know her true identity. We call her Alayne.”

Varys smiled. “Understandable.” But it was not understandable, not understandable at all. He filed this oddity away as he continued to watch the performance, for his perusal later. Something odd was at play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a bit of stage setting here, no pun intended! The setting is an AU Westeros geography with the 1870s French details of the musical... so a combination of both, that's just the vibe I was feeling.
> 
> Mance is not an obvious choice as Varys's partner but as [the actor plays him in the 2004 movie](https://screenmusings.org/movie/dvd/The-Phantom-of-the-Opera/images/The-Phantom-of-the-Opera-0158.jpg), I decided to make it so. Besides, there's an interesting plot bunny that came out of it that I rather like...
> 
> Lastly the incredible music lyrics will feature in dialogue to use them to their fullest extent, but please imagine Sansa singing every one of Christine Daae's songs... 
> 
> Please leave a comment! Let me know your thoughts!


	2. she may not remember me, but I remember her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in getting this update out to you all! I hope you like the chapter as much as I do!
> 
> [Check out this graphic for the story!!](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/187182577936/anywhere-you-go-let-me-go-too-jon-x-sansa)

Sansa saw him before the new owners did. She thought it was a trick at first—a trick of the light or even a cruel trick of the phantom’s—but when she blinked and blinked again and he didn’t disappear, she felt her mouth go dry. Jon Snow was standing in the crowd across the stage from her. It was him, she knew it even at this distance, the fifty feet between them and the expanse of years.

“I know him,” Sansa whispered to Margaery, her voice quivering with delight and disbelief. _“Jon._ It’s Jon.”

Margaery followed her gaze and gave an approving nod. “Handsome.” She returned her gaze to Sansa and smirked. “I didn’t know you had any dark, handsome, _brooding_ men in your past…”

Sansa should have felt embarrassed, should have flushed, but such things paled in comparison to the reality of Jon standing there, in the Highgarden Opera. She could only stare at him. “Oh, it’s truly him… it’s really Jon….”

“Who is this Jon?”

“Jon Snow…” Sansa swallowed. “He is my last living family.”

Margaery clapped her hands over her mouth and whispered, “Not the Targaryen _prince?”_

“He wasn’t always. We were raised together.” Memories assaulted her, of Robb and Jon playing with toy swords while she and Mother sat in the shade, with the sewing in their laps and a tray of tea and hot cakes. It was spring then. “Father raised him as his child, to protect his ruined sister’s honor—”

“Yes, I remember the story now.” Margaery raised her hand impatiently. “What is he doing _here?”_

“I don’t know. Oh, it would be so sweet…” She bit her lip. She could not finish the sentence.

“Go to him.”

“I can’t!”

“He is your brother no longer,” Margaery said, voice dripping with suggestion.

Sansa gasped. “Margaery!”

“I am only speaking true. _Go to him.”_

But Sansa could not do it. The thought of crossing the stage and reuniting with Jon in front of hundreds of eyes made her shudder. For a moment she forgot where and who she was and this was the only hindrance keeping her from leaping into Jon’s arms. When she remembered, she had to wrap her arms around herself to contain her shuddering. _The phantom sees everything._

“So he is the new patron,” Margaery said after the owners’ introduction and Jon’s short speech. Sansa could not formulate a response, still looking at him and thinking how his voice was a man’s voice now, just as his face was a man’s face.

“Oh— he’s coming this way!”

But Sansa didn’t need to be told, as her eyes never left him. She flushed head to toe and although she should have lowered her head and averted her gaze, or perhaps moved further back into the crowd so as be inconspicuous, she did none of that. Instead she straightened her back and looked straight ahead of her— _I won’t look right at him, at least,_ she told herself, yet when he approached she couldn’t help the tilt of her head towards him and the opening of her mouth as though she meant to say something.

But she didn’t— and Jon passed by her, nothing more than a breeze.

She smiled weakly at Margaery. “He doesn’t recognize me.” She was not Sansa anymore. She was not the girl who called herself Ned Stark’s daughter. Why would he recognize her, when that girl was no longer there?

“He didn’t _see_ you.”

Sansa shook her head. “He doesn’t remember me.” Too much time had passed and they were both different people. _You’re a stupid girl, a stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns._

* * *

At first, no one paid attention to Cersei’s tantrum. She was complaining about the length of her dress and the size of her hat. But her tongue grew sharper and her words more insistent until she was walking for the door and the new owners were looking at each other helplessly. Sansa was watching the commotion along with the other performers, who had all stopped rehearsing.

“What do we do now?” Monsieur Varys asked. 

“Grovel,” Monsieur Luwin told them, and Monsieur Varys placed his hand on the other owner’s. “Wait here,” he commanded sharply, before he ran after her.

“Gods be good, let me get through _one_ rehearsal…” Monsieur Tyrion the conductor left the pit and threw his hands in the air in surrender before gulping from a casket of wine. The performers laughed at his dramatics. Though they were brother and sister, it was common knowledge that they hated each other. Madame Tyrell sharply admonished everyone for their idleness and slowly the rehearsal resumed.

But when Cersei and Monsieur Varys returned, he announced that Cersei would be singing a new aria. With a smug look Cersei threw her hat off the stage, to the misery of several maids who scuttled to it, and shook out her golden locks as she walked to center stage. As the ballerinas were ushered to the side of the stage once again, Madame Tyrell looked like she wanted to commit murder. Monsieur Tyrion glared at his sister, and Sansa caught him muttering as he breezed past her to resume his place in the pit. “Cersei _always_ gets what she wants…”

The new aria was from the third act of the play, a song Sansa secretly loved. She found herself humming along and eventually mouthing the words, and the painful moment with Jon was almost forgotten as Sansa lost herself in the song.

It happened far too quickly, as disasters often do. The curtain dropped and Cersei disappeared beneath it. She was shrieking, everyone was rushing to help her, but Sansa felt cold. Slowly she pulled her head back, looking at the dark web of shadows in the ceiling, wondering if she would be able to see him.

“The phantom.” Margaery’s tremulous voice pulled Sansa’s attention to her friend. Her face was white as a sheet, no longer the skeptical girl from the night before. “He’s here.”

Sansa nodded. They clutched each other’s hands in the chaos that followed. Madame Tyrell’s sharp admonitions caught her attention. She was stooping to pick something off the floor, waving off the boy who was trying to pick it up for her. She was far away but Sansa saw a flash of white and the deep, blood red of the seal, and she felt sick.

Madame Tyrell approached the owners, who were bemoaning the loss of Cersei, who had walked out of the opera house after this last incident. The three entered a new stage of heated whispers as Madame Tyrell held out the envelope to them. Monsieur Varys was scoffing while Monsieur Mance looked like he wanted to explode; his face was red and sweaty, and after a while he exclaimed, _“I will not pay a ghost!”_

“You are concerned with this ‘ghost’s’ salary when we will have to refund tonight’s full house,” Monsieur Varys hissed.

“Oh, this entire venture will crumble before it’s even begun!” 

“There will be no refund,” Madame Tyrell interrupted. “The show must go on.”

“How?”

Sansa started when Madame Tyrell’s head swung to her. Their eyes met, and Sansa understood. She felt a shiver of anticipation. _Please, Madame, don’t. I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if he’ll let me._

“Alayne could sing it.”

Sansa heard Margaery’s delighted gasp beside her, then her hands pushing her forward. She felt so many pairs of eyes turn towards her. Her skin felt hot, exposed. The way the new owners were whispering to each other as they eyed her critically did not help her nerves.

But then Madame Tyrell ordered Monsieur Tyrion to start, and the first weak strains of music drifted to her ears. Sansa closed her eyes for a moment. She was not singing on a stage, she was not singing for the phantom. She was in Winterfell, singing for her mother as she brushed her hair. She was skipping through the cold halls of Winterfell, singing only for herself, simply because she loved to do it.

When she opened her eyes, she felt grounded. Steady. At the right moment, she started to sing.

* * *

The phantom found her when she was starting to place the glittering silver clips in her hair. They had given her Cersei’s dressing room as well as her maidservants, but Sansa had refused their help. Their loyalty to Cersei made her reluctant to allow them to dress her, to touch her. Margaery had helped instead, tightening her corset and helping her into the cage crinoline underskirt. The white dress was more elaborate and magnificent than anything she had ever worn, and neither girl could contain their squeals of delight when they looked upon Sansa in the mirror.

Margaery had remained with her until the last possible minute, when she had to leave to prepare herself for the performance. “You will be amazing,” Margaery had said, parting from her with a kiss on the cheek, leaving Sansa to style her hair on her own.

“Sweet pupil, have you no need for your teacher?”

The muscles in her body locked. As inconspicuously as possible, Sansa examined the space of the room reflected in the mirror before her. But she could not see him.

“Of course I do, I have much to learn,” Sansa replied.

“Yet I see you will be performing tonight.”

Sansa feigned innocence, although she had anticipated his anger. The phantom wanted to control everything that happened to her and in the opera, and this performance had nothing to do with him. “You aren’t pleased?”

“You aren’t ready, sweetling. You are good, I suppose, but I wanted you to be perfect.”

When she had finished performing for the new owners and everyone else, they had clapped and clapped. Monsieur Varys had gripped her by the hands and exclaimed, “We have found our star!” She had almost become lightheaded from the praise and the force of her smiling. Yet all those pleasant feelings turned into dust, shame and doubt enveloping her at the phantom’s words.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

“Won’t you? You have much to improve.”

Subdued, she whispered, “Yes, Master.”

Suddenly he materialized behind her, as if he was made of candlelight and shadow. He touched a hand to the naked crook of her neck. She shivered. “You are my sweet girl, my good girl. Tell me you will still have need of me. Tell me.”

“I will always need you,” Sansa murmured in the way he liked.

“I will be listening.” It was a warning.

“I hope I will please you.”

In the mirror she saw his lip curl into a smirk. “Yes. One way or another, you will please me.” 

* * *

Jon Snow had never expected to buy an opera house, but he had never expected to become a prince, either. Yet here he was, in another stiff suit that he was told looked very gallant but felt to him like a silly costume, the high collar with its frills tickling his neck. He had never felt less like himself in a garment, nor in a place as he did in the Highgarden Opera.

It was a beautiful place, with its golden filigree and rich red velvet and painted domed ceiling. Jon could appreciate beauty, _real_ beauty, like the pure sound of a child’s laughter or the godswood in spring. Real beauty was pure and unique to each man; it was not commercialized.

“It’s a wonderful venture, Jon,” Sam was saying beside him as they ascended the steps. It was his first time seeing the opera house, as he had been unable to join him and Davos earlier in the day, although the whole venture was his idea. Davos, one of his financial counselors and the handler of his accounts, had encouraged him to diversify, and together they had hatched this plan.

Davos was here tonight, although he had arrived separately, as he had brought his niece, Shireen, to the performance. Jon supposed he would not see much of him that night, as he had heard from Davos again and again how excited he was to make this “night at the opera” as enchanting as possible for the young girl.

Sam too had brought someone; his wife, Gilly, who stood beside him with wide eyes. Sam had told Jon that Gilly had positively shrieked with glee when he had extended his invitation, but Gilly was of the north too, and he saw now that she looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

“That is an elegant dress, Gilly,” Jon said warmly, hoping to make her feel more comfortable, though Jon knew no amount of grand clothing could change a sense of not belonging. “You look beautiful.”

“You do, my love.” Sam lifted his wife’s hand to his lips and planted a kiss. Only then did Gilly’s face soften. Jon felt a pang of yearning as he watched them. His two friends had their loved ones beside them tonight, yet he was alone.

After leaving them with an employee who would show them to their private box, Jon settled into his own.

He stared down at the sprawl below him, as chattering men and women dripping in silk and pearls filed into their seats. His nose wrinkled in disgust, then he felt shame. He could no longer criticize the horrendously wealthy, as he was one of them. True, his status and fortune had been thrust on him, but until he did something good with it he knew it would hang around his neck like an albatross, more a curse than a blessing. It was not the first time he had this thought, but he had yet to act on it.

Just as the lights dimmed, Jon caught sight of Varys and Mance in the box directly across. He disliked men like Varys, who were far too good at speaking silky words devoid of truth. But he trusted Mance, a northerner and a friend of his father’s. His _real_ father.

Thinking of Ned Stark added to the weight on his heart. The passing of years did not ease the pain of his loss, nor of Robb’s or Catelyn’s or his mother’s. They had all been taken from him so quickly, and even sweet Sansa had disappeared with them.

Jon had looked for her, had felt it his duty to the man and the family that had done so much for him. He had wanted to find her and look after her, even if he had nothing to offer her but his protection and his commitment, things that belonged to a bastard, things that highborn Sansa might reject. On her deathbed his aunt who was his mother had confessed the secret of their true connection, the secret that Ned Stark never got the chance to tell him when he was murdered. Jon’s throat burned as he thought of it, of the way they had sobbed together, too late. The revelation had changed everything, but nothing, as he was still a bastard. Lyanna had refused to tell him who his father was, claiming he was an evil man, and Ned Stark would forever be his father. _Well, that bit was true._

How he had naively ached to learn everything, how much time he had wasted agonizing over unraveling secrets. Now he knew it all, and it had not given him a single ounce of happiness. He ached for the innocence of sparring with Robb in the courtyard. He ached for the moments when Sansa’s eyes would fall on him, appraising and confusing but not unkind. He ached for Winterfell.

Dark, mournful thoughts unfurled and flitted through his mind as the opera began. When the second act ended, a serving maid brought him a tray with champagne. Jon took the glass but wished for something stronger. The lights signaled the beginning of the third act, and he knew her at once.

Jon bolted up, pushing himself to the edge of the velvet seat. He stared, eyes straining, pushing them to _see,_ to know for certain. But he knew. He could not see her eyes clearly in the harsh bright light, and the distance was too great to pick out her every feature. But he saw enough to recognize her, to see the blurred memory of a face he knew in childhood shift into the face of the woman standing below. And her _hair_ —Tully hair, auburn and copper, it caught the light of the stage and looked like a live thing, like liquid fire.

_Can it be? Can it be Sansa?_

Sansa Stark had vanished into smoke, as good as dead. But here she was, at the center of the Highgarden Opera stage, a glittering vision.

She started to sing. At first her voice washed over him, sweet and calming like a balm, then it enveloped him completely until he realized he was breathing too quickly, near gasping, and he placed his hand on his chest to still his soaring heart.

Jon knew nothing of music and plays, of stories featuring heroics and romance. But as he watched Sansa sing, he understood her love of those things, the things he had once deemed fanciful and silly—did they make her feel like this? He was enchanted, lost. Everything else disappeared as he watched her. The song was lovely and sad but Jon could not ascertain the words. It was too overwhelming to hear her, to see her. Her skin was ivory white as the dress she wore. Every inch of her sparkled, brilliant as snow.

Jon lurched back into existence as she delivered the final, impossibly high note. He leapt to his feet and applauded along with the rest of the audience. “Bravo!” He knew she could not see him or hear him, but still he needed to show his admiration.

He swept from the box immediately, even if his mind told him it was pointless. The play was not over, and Sansa might not be available to speak with him instantly. But he did not care. He could not sit in a box for hours and delay the chance to speak with her. His heart pounded in his chest; for the first time in years, he felt hope.

As he descended a winding staircase, trying to remember how he had entered the back of the stage earlier in the day, he dragged a restless hand over his beard. What if she did not want to see him? What if she did not remember him?

He forced his doubts to quiet. By some miracle, Sansa Stark had returned to his life, and nothing would keep him from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "think of me... think of me fondly..." 
> 
> Leave a comment!


	3. recall those days, look back on all those times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/189052554891/anywhere-you-go-let-me-go-too-chapter-3) hello, i still love them!! I'm sorry this story is so slow going but i'm busy and I'm trying my best !! thank you for your patience queens and kings and monarchs!

To be on the stage, to sing as she did, to see the ocean of faces before her as she stared into the harsh lights, refusing to squint—it was thrilling. It was exhilarating. When the play was finished, she felt Madame Tyrell’s surprisingly strong arms around her like a vice grip, protecting her from the overwhelming crowd that plied her with roses, until she was safely in Cersei’s dressing room once more.

“Oh, Madame!” Sansa pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks, which felt fire-hot to the touch. “How did I do?”

“You know very well how you did. You were marvelous.” Her words were sharp and she did not smile, but it was the highest praise Sansa could imagine.

“If it were left to me, child, you would take the stage for every one of our productions. But it’s not.”

“Cersei,” Sansa said knowingly.

“That’s not who I mean, and you know it.” She drew a single blood-red rose from within her robes. The long stem was tied with a black ribbon in a perfect bow. “He is pleased with you.”

Sansa stared at the rose, bile rising in her throat. _It’s good news. At least he is pleased._ But the phantom was just as distasteful to her when he was pleased as when he was not. In fact, it was his pleasure that disgusted her so. But she knew he could be watching, so she took the rose from Madame Tyrell’s extended hand.

“Well, I enjoyed my performance very much, but I am happy to return to my place,” Sansa said with as much bravado as she could muster. “It was like a beautiful dream, a waking dream, for one night… I am grateful.”

Madame’s sharp eyes bore into her. “But you have ambition. You want to be a star.”

Sansa couldn’t deny the truth in Madame Tyrell’s words. Yet when she protested it was with truth, too.

“There are more important things.” Sansa could not elaborate further than that, for fear of the phantom listening in, but he could not follow her into her thoughts. So she thought freely of Jon, let the acute longing of seeing him again consume her thoughts. It would be so overwhelmingly lovely to speak to the last remaining member of her family, someone who had known Mother and Father and Robb as well as she had. But that wasn’t the only reason. As she pictured the way he had looked, the man he had become now, she felt a stirring in her heart. _He is your brother no longer._ Margaery’s words, even just an echo in her head, made her blush.

Madame Tyrell did not linger. She permitted the new owners to speak with her briefly, who gushed with congratulations and relief, and soon they all left her be. Finally Sansa was alone with her thoughts, save for the phantom who may or may not be watching. _Try as he might,_ she thought spitefully as she sat in front of the gilded mirror, _he cannot see into my heart._

Enveloped in quiet, Sansa thought of Jon. She removed the exquisite silver earrings and allowed herself to visualize Jon’s next visit to the opera house, for there must be another, as the new patron. He was not a manager but perhaps he would be curious about his investment… she pictured a dozen different scenarios, and in each one Jon noticed her, remembered her. He said, _Sansa, I have thought of you fondly,_ and pressed a chaste kiss to her hand.

Part of her knew she was delaying the inevitable. If the phantom had not appeared yet, he was waiting for her to retire to her bedroom, and then he would visit. Sansa stubbornly stayed where she was, in the room of glittering gold she suspected she may never sit in again, and leisurely picked the silver stars from her hair.

* * *

“Sansa.”

 _It can’t be._ The candles had burned to their wicks, leaving her in darkness with small pockets of warmth. She did not know how much time had passed. Sansa was delaying returning to her bedchamber in truth, dread gripping her like a vice whenever she contemplated that walk. Of course, the phantom could visit her here, she knew, just as he had before her performance, but Sansa still felt protected from him in Cersei’s unfamiliar dressing room, whereas her bedroom was a place familiar to him, where he had visited her countless times.

She was shaking like a leaf, still seated on the seat before the mirror from which she had not budged, wondering if she’d angered him with her delay— _stupid_ —when a knock had fallen on the door. The phantom would not knock, and so Sansa had bid them enter.

Then, that voice.

“Sansa.”

It was only a whisper behind her yet she heard it resounding like a drum. Sansa turned slowly in her chair and found him in the shadows.

She said nothing—she couldn’t speak. He was even more beautiful at ten feet than he was at a hundred. He took a step closer and Sansa wondered how much more beautiful he’d be up close. He was so much broader than she remembered, especially standing as he was while she was still seated. He stepped into a pool of light cast by one of the dying candles, then took another step; half of him stood in the light, the other half in shadow. But Sansa could see him clearly. The roundness of boyhood was gone from his face, in its place sharply defined features and a dark, full beard that reminded her he was a _man,_ truly a man now.

He walked to her as if pulled by invisible rope, by gravity. She wanted to stand and run to him but she feared her legs would not carry her. He was close, anyhow, so close—and when he reached her he dropped to his knees and stared at her with open-mouthed awe.

For a single heart stopping moment they stayed that way, faces level, drinking the other in. Sansa couldn’t know his thoughts but that was what she did— memorizing his warm, solemn eyes and the new silvery scar above his eye, so that if this was the last time she was allowed to look on him, she would never forget. His image would warm her in her grave.

Then he opened his arms and took her into them, and then Sansa was moving, her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him to her, her entire body reaching for him and clinging like a dying plant that has finally been placed in the light. The world went black as she buried her face in his neck, where he was warm and smelled warm too, a new musk she felt in her belly. His arms tightened around her. His beard scratched her forehead and her cheek but she didn’t mind. In one fluid motion he raised them so that they were both standing, and then her feet were off the floor. He was carrying her, crushing her to his chest. Sansa didn’t mind. She wouldn’t mind if he went on tightening until she was joined to him and he could take her away forever.

“Sansa.” She felt his throat move with his speech, with the sound of her name. It sent a shiver through her body. “I don’t believe it.”

His voice was even lovelier this close, deliciously low and deep, rich with northern brogue that made her ache. She had not heard it in so long. His hands moved over her back and she clutched him tighter, suddenly terrified he would let go.

“Please.” Her hand found the nape of his neck and curled around it, his curls tickling her palm. “Not yet.”

She felt his chest expand with a breath, felt his sigh on her cheek. “I won’t go. Not anywhere.”

“Oh, _Jon.”_ How was it he knew the exact words to say? She spoke his name again, just because she could, because it was a gift from the gods that she could address him.

“I worried you would not remember me.”

She felt his confession spoken into her hair, and it struck a brief pain to her heart.

“I would not forget.”

Jon gently lowered her to her feet and loosened his grasp and Sansa did the same, so she could look at him. But they did not release each other. Jon’s hands settled on the small of her back and hers gripped his arms.

“You remember me?” He said it tentatively, as if he still did not dare to believe it.

“Of course I do,” she replied softly, staring into his dark eyes. “I remember you, like a shadow at Robb’s side. I remember your skill with a sword, and how you’d defeat all of us at marbles, and the way you would sulk more often than smile.”

His lips curved now. “I was a brooding child.”

“I remember that time I got lost in the crypts.” Sansa’s throat thickened with emotion at the memory. “You and Robb wouldn’t let me come, so I followed you. I lost you, lost my way and scratched my knee.”

“Madame Catelyn was furious with us,” he chuckled. “Every man in Winterfell was in the crypts that night, searching for you.”

“You were the one who found me. You tore your shirt to bind my knee, you kissed my forehead to stop me crying.” Suddenly her face felt hot. “Do you remember that part?” 

“I do.” His fingertips, the skin warm and rough, trailed over her brow and into her hair. “I remember it well. I snuck you a lemon cake that night.”

She grinned. “I refused my stew in favor of the secret treat I knew awaited me in my room. Father was not pleased.”

His smile faded into a solemn look, and he met her eyes with apology in his. “Sansa… I don’t know if you’ve heard—”

“I have.” Sansa placed a hand on his. “He’s still your father.”

He blinked, his jaw tightening as he fought to control his emotion. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She caressed his hand, which still lay under hers. “I am only speaking true.”

“I’m not a Stark. I never was.” 

She squeezed his hand, forcing him to look at her as she said, “You are to me.”

His eyes remained solemn, even if the line of his shoulders seemed to loosen just a bit at her words. “It changed nothing for you… my true parenthood?”

He spoke tentatively, almost frightened, and Sansa glimpsed the boy she knew, the one who was acutely aware of his lack of place in the world. It nearly brought a tear to her eye.

And yet— she thought she saw something else in his question, the blossom of hope. The fear of rejection. _He is your brother no longer._

 _Hush now, Margaery,_ she chided herself, and squeezed Jon’s hand once more. 

“You are my family,” she spoke carefully, praying they were the words he wanted to hear, the ones that would give him a home at last. “That will never change.”

“But I’m not your brother.” His eyes showed true fear now, and Sansa knew at once what it meant. “Does that change anything?”

In the moment that followed his declaration, for that’s what it was, a dozen voices told her she shouldn’t. It was too dangerous. _But he has been so brave,_ she thought, her eyes falling to the mouth that had delivered those words, those lips she had never noticed were so full. _I want to be brave too._

“Yes.” She swallowed thickly as those dark eyes met hers, molten with a new intensity. “It does.”

His palm turned under hers, his roughened skin reminding her that although he may be a prince now he was still _Jon,_ still a man who trained regularly with a sword. He intertwined their fingers and Sansa’s heart soared.

“I have thought of you, Sansa. I have wished for you.”

She felt tears sting her eyes once more at the strangled note of his voice. He was holding back tears, too, his grip on her hand tightening as if he feared she would vanish.

“What did you think of?” 

“The way you hid your head in the furs when father told us dark stories of the north,” he chuckled. “And begged him to play the violin instead.”

Her heart lightened with his remembrances. “He was so talented.”

“I remember your voice, in the halls of Winterfell. It’s just as sweet as my memory told me it was.”

She flushed to her toes, though of course she should have known, since he has appeared in her dressing room. “You watched me sing?”

Jon nodded, his face lighting up briefly with a true smile before sobering once more. “When I saw you on that stage, all in white… you looked like… I thought—I thought…”

“You had seen a ghost?”

“An angel,” he corrected softly.

Sansa shook her head. Ghost or angel—that was the phantom, not her. “I’m here. Flesh and blood.”

His hands spanned her waist as if to test her claim. His eyes dropped to the point of contact, and Sansa felt pain when his eyes filled with tears. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m here,” she repeated, tracing the path to his chest and placing her palm over his heart, as if she could stop the pain there.

“Sansa.” He took her wrist, cradling it gently in his hand, keeping it fixed in its place. “What happened? How did you end up here?”

Sansa shook her head against the terrible memories. “After father and mother and Robb were gone…” She swallowed, unable to speak for a few seconds, and felt Jon’s hand soothing on her back. “I went into hiding.”

“I want to know,” Jon said, soft but insistent. “I want to know everything.”

Sansa shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes. _I wish, oh how I wish I could tell you everything!_

Instead, she replied, “There will be time enough for that dark story.”

After a long moment, Jon nodded, agreeing reluctantly not to spoil their first meeting. “Sansa…” He breathed in deeply. “I’m so sorry. I failed you. I searched for you for years, and I… I stopped… I thought you were gone too, I am so sorry for that.”

Sansa could not stop the fluttering delight in her chest. In truth, she was surprised Jon thought of her at all; let alone this devoted search he was professing.

“Don’t apologize, Jon,” she said. “It’s me who should apologize.”

He blinked, his shock apparent. “What for?”

“I think I was awful to you, when we were children.”

“You weren’t,” he protests immediately.

“I fear… that is, over the years, I wondered if I was cruel to you, if I treated you differently than Robb. I regretted it.”

“I _was_ different from Robb,” he said, slow and careful, and Sansa wondered if he was confessing something, if he had harbored a different kind of affection for her even then. The thought made her head swim.

“We were children,” Jon continued, and Sansa realized belatedly she hadn’t said anything. “There’s nothing to forgive. I treasure that time, Sansa. Our lives in Winterfell.”

“I do too.” Sansa felt the rise and fall of his chest under her palm, and imprinted that to memory, too. “I’m glad that there is no room for grudges between us. Only the happiest memories.”

“There is room for more, I hope,” he said, and Sansa was acutely aware of his hands, one holding her hand to his chest, the other curved around her waist.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice a shade darker. “I’ll take you anywhere. We will dine, we will talk of lost years…”

What he proposed was all her dreams come to life. A prince, none other than her dear Jon, come to take her away from her gilded cage. A magical evening in the candlelight. His hand over hers through the hours of the night.

“Jon… I have missed you…” Sansa pondered how to dissuade him without arousing suspicion. “But I can’t, not tonight.” She bit her lip and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “Is that alright?”

“Aye. You must be very tired.” If he was disappointed, he hid it well. “Any night will do, Sansa, any night you like.”

She felt her cheeks heat at the fervor in his words. “That’s very kind of you. A man like you must be very busy—”

He shook his head. “Sansa. _Any_ time you like,” he repeated, his hand releasing hers to trail a lone finger down her cheek.

Sansa leaned into the caress, her eyes closing as he said, “I am yours to command.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment!!!!!


End file.
